A few days later, Natty and Mariba stood on the southern outskirts of Neldane, beside the road leading out of town.  Natty gently scratched Bello’s shoulder, in the pre-dawn light of a crisp spring morning, as gentle breezes wafted through the leafy branches overhead.

She gave a firm rub to the bend of his neck, appreciating – as she often did – his fine musculature and development. 

The loyal horse worked the bit in his mouth, and gave a swish of his tail.

“He wants to get going,” Mariba said.

“Not as much as I do,” Natty replied, grinning.  She did not need her deep bond with the equine spirit, to share Bello’s excitement.

“And Corporal Caomh wants to get going, just to get you back home,” her big sister added, with just a bit of dry humor.

Natty followed her line of sight, past the gathering of young cavalry soldiers clad in their brown uniforms, to where the dark-haired Caomh Todory, Corporal, First-Class, was receiving his quiet, last-minute instructions from the platoon lieutenant, who had come to see them off.  

“With your sudden addition to his command, he has more to deal with.”

“I surely wish he would just get on with it.”

Natty watched and waited a few more minutes.  The instant Caomh gave the order to mount up, she effortlessly swung into the saddle.

Mariba looked up at her. “Don’t let your excitement get the better of you.”

“I’m not a child,” Natty grumbled.  “I won’t wander off.”

“You know what I mean.”

Natty gave her response, as she had done for the third time in the past two days.  “Father already told me all this, you know.”

“So take it to heart!  You’re an outstanding rider, and Bello is exceptionally smart.” She tilted her head toward the others. “Don’t go making anyone look bad.”

“If they’re wearing the rank, they should be good enough already.”

“Are you ready to don the soldier’s uniform yourself?” Mariba pointedly asked, looking her in the eye.

“No,” she quietly answered, glancing downward.

“Then, mind yourself.  And remember, I stuck my neck out for you.”

“And I promise never to forget, Dear Sister,” she replied, her smile returning, “‘til the day I die.”

Then she and Mariba both looked, as the corporal started leading the small detachment off.  Most of them carried lances; a couple were outfitted with bows.  Except for Caomh, no one wore a rank higher than that of private, first-class. 

But they all sat strong and upright in the saddle, carrying the pride of their great nation with them. 

And Natty briefly reflected on how great a privilege it was to join them.

“If you see some of that tea mother is so fond of,” Mariba hastily whispered, “buy it while you’re in Falconrake.  I’ll reimburse you when you get back.”

Natty gave another grin and a nod, as her sister gave Bello a final pat. 

Then Natty touched her heels to his sides, and they joined the company on their southward trek.

<*>                                                         <*>                                                      <*>

She immediately settled into an easy camaraderie with her new mates, as they travelled the main road leading away from home.  They were pleased at her having joined them, as she had expected them to be.   

Of course, she was good friends with all of them.  Fierna the lancer and Nanbres the archer – the other two females in the company – she had known for over eight years, along with Caomh, Tollis, Ottend, Fedolle, Orchelle, and Tremba.  Riseburg and Aodhan were stalwart newcomers, who had come from other towns during the past year.

That being the case, she also knew how skilled each one was in the saddle.  And despite the fact that they were walking along at an easy pace on the road, she involuntarily watched, to see if they would ride as well on the mission, as they did on their home turf.  Just as importantly, she observed the horses, to make sure they would stay true to their training, as they went out into a new environment.

Tremba she kept a closer eye on.  At less than six feet tall and possessing a stocky frame, he was a mellow sort of man.  His horse, however, always had a generous amount of vigor; and Tremba had to be mindful, as she was quick to try and race any other saddled animals in the vicinity. 

Orchelle, Caohm’s ginger-haired second in command, rode slightly behind and to the left of the corporal, bearing the Rendart flag on his own lance.  A dependable tracker, he took Natty’s inclusion with much approval.  He pointed out to everyone how glad the horses, which she had helped train, were to have her along.

The other riders heartily agreed; and for some reason, Natty felt her cheeks trying to blush at the collective praise.  Nanbres, with her dark curly hair tied in back, and a more businesslike disposition similar to Mariba’s, was riding beside Natty and stayed quiet.  But with a brief glance toward her, did give a small smile and nod.

The sun was past its midpoint, by the time the young equestrian found herself at the front of the queue, beside the corporal.

“Well, Natty,” Caomh courteously remarked.  “Nice to know we have such a good field-guard with us.”

“You can stop with the fake pleasantries,” she said, albeit in a friendly tone.

“Let’s just say, I hope you left your stubbornness at home,” he replied, never taking his eyes off the road in front of him.

“Have no fear.  I know my future relies on your report.  But don’t forget, the horses’ wellbeing relies on me.”

“Then you know your duties.  Don’t think I’ll give you any special treatment.”

“Who’s asking?”

They travelled well past sunset, and pitched camp in an often-used resting-site on the edge of Rendart’s border, nestled in a large copse of thick trees.  Natty made sure each horse took a good drink from a nearby stream, then placed them in the best spot for the night.  She had them all nearly done, as Orchelle picked up his saddle.

“Why did you bring such a long pack-rope?” he asked.

She glanced at the length of narrow but stout-woven line, which all the mounts’ picket-ropes were tied to.

“It looks brand new,” he added.

“We’re going different places,” she told him, simply.  “I wanted something durable.”

“I think you’re overdoing it,” he remarked, as they walked over to the fire.  “But, it’s your money.”

After she had finished her meal, and the group had made some small talk, Caomh asked her, “Natty, how is your proficiency with weapons?”

“Against a moving target?” she replied, allowing herself just a little bit of smugness, as she was well-known for her accuracy with a lance.

“Warfare demands we fight on the ground, not just from horseback.”

“I have trained with the sword.  We are a fighting nation, after all.”

“So I’ve heard.  You have the fundamentals well-practiced, so more advanced lessons would not cut into your time in the corral.  Although, I’m sure your father did all he could.”

‘Of course he did, as Mariba doubtlessly told you,’ Natty thought, with a silent jab towards her big sister.

“You have not asked about my skill with the bow,” she said, less enthusiastically, as she started to sense where this conversation was going.

“A bow is a distance weapon.”

“And your point is?”

“You are in my squad, with only a dagger hanging from your belt.  Like any of us, you might suddenly be caught on the ground and all alone.”

“We have a pair of training sleeves,” he continued.  “Show Nanbres what you can do.”

She rose to her feet, as quickly as coming to attention.  As Fierna secured one of the protective leather sheaths over her own medium-weight sword, Natty took the offered blade, and with a snap in her step, walked over to a clear spot on the other side of the fire.  She assumed a basic fencing stance, as Nanbres came to meet her.  She had no illusions about facing the older, trained soldier, but she was resolved to show them all what she could do.

After what felt like two full hours of swinging her weapon and receiving hits, she knew exactly what she could and could not do.  And, much to her chagrin, so did everyone else.  Natty had not previously harbored any personal animus towards Caomh.  But, as she stood with heavy breathing and wounded pride, she could not help entertaining fantasies of placing a burr in his boot. 

Thanks to the patience she had developed over years of working with temperamental horses, she stayed composed, with her frustration hidden behind a mask of calm. If he wanted to hear her complain, she would leave him sorely disappointed.

“That’s enough,” Caomh called, ending the sparring. 

His words were neutral, but she sensed the lack of assurance in his voice.  She pretended not to notice, as she handed Fierna’s sword back. 

“Work on the quick parry and cross-cut,” he said to her.  “Practice with Nanbres when we’re not riding.”

“Yes, sir,” she stoically replied.

<*>                                                         <*>                                                      <*>

The next two days rolled along, and their surroundings drifted past peacefully and without a care.  Natty, however, concocted different ways to hold her reins, as her wrists and hands – her right especially – quivered and ached from her newly-imposed sword-fighting lessons. 

Bello did not help the situation, as he pitched his head, wanting to run about in his new terrain, and explore the new spaces opening up around him.  But in her heart of hearts, she did not mind, since his excitement was so akin to her own.  Elated at having left behind the safety of home to pursue her passion, she just kept eyeing the road in front, anxious to see what would next appear over the horizon.

Rain started falling the next night, and doggedly stayed with them.  Fortunately, she kept moderately dry, under an old, secondhand rain slicker.  She maintained a positive disposition, frequently patting her horse on the withers with a pleasant word. 

On the third day of the rain, after she saw to her responsibilities in the camp, she took Fierna’s borrowed weapon again, and went to join Nanbres in an out of the way clearing, despite the precipitation.

Her older comrade secretively told her, “Your basic skills have given you a good foundation. 

“Now listen well, because we will do something a little different tonight.  Caomh might not approve, since this is an advanced technique.  But it can help you if you’re ever afoot, and danger suddenly approaches from your blind side.”

Natty nodded, giving her undivided attention.

“You hold a medium-weight sword, but you have a grip built by controlling massive animals with just a set of reins.  Raise your weapon, as if to strike.”

Natty did so; then Nanbres stepped three feet in front, and slightly to Natty’s right, exposing her back to the younger girl.  Then she spun.  Her sword was in perfect position, ready to parry or stab, high or low; and Natty had missed it.

“Observe,” she explained.

“Your lead foot is farther from the enemy, and this puts you in an awkward position.  If they rush you from that side, they can force you to go on the defensive, and keep you there. 

“In the basic stance, rock the hilt of the sword back, so the blade touches your shoulder and almost lays against your bicep.”

“Careful not to cut your face with the tip,” she added, as she smoothly demonstrated.  “Your thumb and forefinger will have control of the hilt, with the weight of the sword resting against your arm.

“This brings your center of weight inward toward your body. 

“Twist your hips, as you pivot on the balls of your feet, in one motion. 

“As you extend your sword again, slide your left foot back by an arm’s length.  Again, in one motion.  The spin of the hips is key, as it uses that concentration of weight to help you turn.

“Now, you try it.”

Natty took position, and did as told.

“No, no!  Bend your legs with the turn, or you’ll wrench your knees right out of socket.”

Nanbres made her use it on the left and right side, hitting her with her own sleeved weapon.  “Let your guard become your attack!” she scolded, over and over again. 

Natty put herself off balance, and left herself wide open; and suffered many hits from her sister-in-arms.  

But the repetition helped her learn the movement; and Nanbres proved herself a good teacher that night.

            <*>                                                      <*>                                                      <*>

Natty arose the next morning with optimism, as they mounted up to resume their trek. 

She was replaying the motions in her mind, bringing up the rear of the line, when she suddenly called to Orchelle, “Your blanket has a wrinkle!”

The trooper followed her pointing finger, and looked down at the right rear corner of his saddle, and the saddle-blanket underneath.  “No, it doesn’t!” he answered, his perturbed tone carrying above the patter of rain.

As the cavalry of Rendart were proud of their skill with their animals, Natty did not like the idea of telling Orchelle in front of everyone, that he had messed up something as simple as saddling his mount.  But she liked the idea that she had been so distracted, thinking so much of the night before, and having not noticed right away, even less. 

“I can see it from here!” she insisted, raising her voice and sticking to her assessment.

“Check it!” Caomh ordered, from the front of the line.

With a grunt, Orchelle dismounted, and quickly loosened the leather girth.

Keenly, Natty watched as he lifted the corner of his saddle, and pulled back the blanket, to reveal a tiny place where the coarse fibers had bunched up underneath.

Quickly, he smoothed it out, and re-tightened the cinch.

“Good eyes,” he complimented her, as they both started their mounts again to catch up with the others.  “How did you know it was there?”

“It was the way Tarthi stepped,” she said, referring to his mare.  “She felt discomfort in that spot.”

“Thanks, Field-guard.”  

  <*>                                                    <*>                                                      <*>

Natty found wet but good grazing for the horses, as the rain stayed with them.

She had been much younger, when she and her family had travelled this way once before, on a trip to the foreign land of Falconrake.  Her young mind had been excited at the time, going new places and seeing new things.  She worked her memories intensely, thinking back to those times and trying to find old landmarks.

As night was falling, a collection of forested hills appeared far to their east, along with divided tracts of rolling pastures, surrounding a walled town over a mile away.

They did not deviate, but stayed on their southward path.

“We’re passing next to Duenmy,” Nanbres called to Caomh, referring to the farming settlement.  “Will we not stop here?”

“No,” he replied.

“In this darkness, with this rain?!” Natty stoutly queried.  “The road is slick with wet stones!”

She did not mind the travel; nor was she trying to sound argumentative.  But the conditions were dangerous for the horses’ hooves, and they all knew it.

“I want to get past the Cloudy Dells,” Caomh replied.

Natty looked to the left, peering intensely into the gloom.  The hills with their woodlands stretched far away, eastward into the darkness.

“Can we not join the townsfolk in their walls?”

“Not when we have to travel among the trees, to reach those walls,” Orchelle told her, speaking for Caomh.

Then Natty remembered.  Tribes of dangerous creatures did indeed inhabit the shadowy wilderness close by.  Since this land was close to Rendart territory, the horse nation’s lancers often came here, to help maintain the peace.  As her family had been traveling with a well-armed caravan those years ago, they had not seen any trouble.

Caomh was right, she admitted to herself.  If the monsters were on the prowl, then being out at night was too dangerous, even for two armed squads.

Silently, they rode on.

A warm and welcome sun rose to greet them the next morning, and Caomh kept them sped up to a lope, covering more ground, as the road took a more eastward route.  Natty did not get a respite, as she kept sparring with Nanbres.

“You’re doing well,” the cavalrywoman told her.

“Thank you,” Natty replied, working her aching wrist joints.  “Remind me to thank Caomh later.”

Nanbres just chuckled.

<*>                                                         <*>                                                      <*>

They crested a rise two days later; and a familiar sight greeted Natty’s eyes, as the road led toward a sweeping woodland of dense trees.  Before they passed under the southern spur of its canopy, she noted its sheer breadth, extending to the north, with no end in sight. 

“This is the Digine forest, isn’t it?” Tremba asked, as he rode next to Natty at the rear of the line.

“Yes,” she answered.  “I saw it a few years ago.  We are well within Falconrake’s borders.”

“Is it as dangerous as the Cloudy Dells?”

She shrugged.  “No.  It is inside the kingdom, after all.”

“Are you bored looking at it?” he lightly ventured.

“Forgive me, if I don’t act excited over it,” she said, more pleasantly, applying a quick scratch on the back of Bello’s mane.  “We prefer the more open spaces.”

With that, they quietly plodded along under the great trees’ shade.  Despite not feeling tired, Natty found herself fighting the urge to doze off in the saddle. 

Suddenly, she snapped her eyes open, unaware of how much time had passed, as Caomh called out.

“Here is Boer Gorges,” he said, as they exited the trees, and a substantial town lay further east before them, along a gently descending slope.

“Does that mean what I think it does?” Orchelle asked.

Their leader gave a stretch of his stiff arms. “Yes.  We’re sleeping indoors tonight.”

Everyone bedded their own mount in the stalls of a local barn.  Natty took a little more time, to give Bello an extra bit of brushing, and check each animal’s hooves.  Satisfied, she joined the others next door, at the Marlby Mae Inn and Tavern.

The establishment was well-kept, with candle-lanterns hanging from the ceiling, and a well-behaved clientele.  It was a nicer place than she would have expected to stay, given the squad’s strictly-measured travel-funds.  But she had learned the proprietor – also the owner of the barn – had an arrangement with their kingdom.

With their troupe occupying three round tables, Caomh, Nanbres and Orchelle were discussing their route. 

As Natty sat down with them, and started on her plate, she noticed a few other guests glancing toward their party, and at her in particular.  She could not fault them for that, as she was younger than the others, and not in uniform.  They might think of her as a page or bearer.  The question was clearly written on more than one face.

As the locals went about their business, however, one in particular caught her attention.  She could tell he was deliberately walking toward their table.

She felt no need for concern; but was touched by a sense of disquietedness, at the sight of him.  He wore a sullen look – – without hostility, but also without cheer. 

Her curiosity prompted her to take a quick measure of the man, as he presented in worn but clean clothes.  Although his brown hair and beard were long, they were not disheveled; and prevalent streaks of grey flowed through each.  He was tall, with noticeable muscles and the easy movements of a fighter. 

The sword hanging from his left hip was distinctive, with its black cross-guard and handle.  The scabbard too was black – – as black as a raven, and could easily have clattered against a table, chair, or another patron.  But its owner did not let it, easily moving so that, even without a hand resting on the hilt, his weapon made no errant moves, nor touch anything he did not want it to.

Natty decided he must be a veteran of the battlefield.  But the depth of his melancholy – despite its subtlety – kept bothering her, as he reached their table.

“On a mission, Lord Corporal?” the stranger queried, in a flat, bass voice.

“Caomh Todory,” Natty’s commander said in return, looking up at him with full courtesy.  “We go to an allied nation.”

“I would judge it to be this one.  Not meaning to pry, mind you.”

“You guess right,” Caomh replied.

“Begging your pardon, sir.  Fetton Molnar is my name.  I used to be a knight of Colle.”

The Colle, as Natty recalled, were a group of foot soldiers and cavalry, who rode under Falconrake’s banner.  They had protected the local territories between the nations for generations.  She had heard about their history and bravery, when Mariba was learning about different militaries’ tactics, and talked about her lessons over the dinner table.

“You must have seen your share of fighting,” Caomh remarked.

“That I have.  For a drink, I’ll tell you a few things about where you’re headed.”

“Then, have a seat.” 

Caomh gestured to an empty chair, as he waved a serving-girl over.

As soon as he sat, Fetton fixed Caomh with that same, silent bleakness.  “Things have been stirring in Groshett.”

It was a simple statement; and Natty liked to think she was grownup enough to not be taken in by the fables and fantasies of strangers.  Also, she had certainly been taught not to interrupt elders in conversation.  But from the grimness of Fetton’s manner, she felt something ominous stirring, with no room for missed details.

“Excuse me,” she said.  “What is Groshett?”

“Don’t you know?” Caomh asked.  “It’s a part of the Digine.  It lies in the northern interior of the main forest, a few days’ travel from the main road. 

“Not that you would ever want to go there, though.  It’s an awful place, filled with many wicked things.  They act as a constant threat to the human towns east and west of the forest, and travelers and caravans who happen to be on the roads between those towns.  I would wonder why the people stay.”

“The soil of the cleared land gives a bountiful yearly crop,” Fetton answered. “It is hard to leave, when you can earn a good living.”

Natty watched Fetton closely, briefly waiting.  Then, to satisfy her curiosity, she simply asked, “What kinds of wicked things?”

“Magical,” he keenly answered, giving her a stern look. 

Somehow, she felt as if he was talking to her, as he would to a small child.  She ignored any real or imagined slight, however, and focused instead on what he had to say.

“Some nasty tribes of goblins and orcs are known for residing there,” Caomh clarified for her. 

Natty watched Fetton’s bearded face, waiting for him to comment. 

“And kyce’s,” Caomh added, “and even short-winged hythiks.”

“They’re not the only ones,” Fetton replied, turning back to him.  “The place is a cursed domain, where all manner of evil prowls about, borne both of flesh and the land itself.  If the packs of monsters don’t get you on the trails, then lizard-men and marsh-fangs will tear you apart in the swamps.  The boggy waters themselves sit in wait, to drag down any fool who dares try to cross them.

“But among all that, there’s an even worse breed.  Much worse, because they were once human.”

“The Grackles,” Caomh finished for him.

“You know the tales,” the tall man said, as if by way of compliment.

“But, that’s a type of bird,” Natty politely pointed out, insinuating herself more into the conversation.

“Not this type, young miss,” their new acquaintance answered.

 “A long time ago,” he told her, although he was speaking loudly enough for all of them hear, “a certain house of Falconrake nobility had relations with an entity not of this world, and dabbled in a dark art which it offered.   

“The power they were promised, was an alien thing that corrupted them,” he said, with a distinct quality of disgust rising in his voice.  “They became beings that walk like men, but are filled with an insidious taint.” 

He took a long sip from his stein, releasing a slow, serene exhalation as the amber liquid slid down his gullet.  “Thanks to their having associated with that creature,” he went on, “they possess strange deviltry at their fingertips; to the point that they can even fly.”

Caomh quickly spoke up.  “I thought that part of them was just a legend.”

“No, sir.  It’s very real – – as real as their treachery.  Led by a matriarch, who by that time declared herself a cleric, they tried to bring more people under the corruptor’s influence. Their recruitment extended outside their own house, and the royal family was split. 

“The kingdom purged them, and their wicked ways.  They retreated into Groshett, and took control of the monster tribes living there.  They have sustained themselves, with the center of the forest becoming their own small city.”

“Once evil takes root,…” Caomh started to say, but stopped, letting the thought speak for itself.

“Falconrake would have been better off, killing the lot of them right away,” Fetton quietly groused.  “But unfortunately, they showed mercy.”

“Don’t armed outposts still maintain a watch, between the Digine and the rest of Falconrake?”

“Yes.”   

Natty wondered, if, given the way Fetton acted, he had a more personal stake in the tale, than what he was letting on.

“What kind of creatures are they,” Orchelle asked, “to command those monsters, which must outnumber them, several dozen to one?”

“You mean, turn the monsters into their private army,” Nanbres noted.

“The dark magic lets them do it,” Fetton answered.  “It takes the form of a fine, black mist, floating in the air.  At their command, it muddles a person’s mind, and confuses the senses.  It’s called, ‘Mysdral’, and it fills the Groshett Forest like a never-ending fog.  Sometimes, wisps of it can be seen along the Digine Forest’s edge.”  

“Why doesn’t the royal garrison move on the place?”

“As if they haven’t tried!”  Fetton’s answer was excited, but then his eyes sank again. 

“The Mysdral protects them.  Companies of soldiers have gone in to Groshett, only to have very few return.  Survivors described becoming disoriented within the mist, being attacked and fighting, but not able to tell friend from foe.  Evidence of the lost soldiers was found later, with their heads placed on pikes, along Digine trails.” 

He paused in his speech, to rest his forehead in his palm and silently stare down at the tabletop. 

Natty could not tell if he was searching for the right words, or deciding whether it was worth it to continue. 

“No matter what justice you bring, that cursed mist hides them, from any who come against them. 

“And avenge the lives they have taken,” he quietly added.

The table was quiet for a moment.

“They took your family, didn’t they?” Caomh gently surmised.

“Aye, lad.”

Fetton looked up, his features like a darkened pall. 

“A wife,” he told them.  “And little ones.  Even if you beat their minions, there’s nothing a sharp sword can do, when it passes through the Mysdral.”

“Do they have the force to take the nearest towns?”

“Of course.  But other than raids, they have always held back; probably because they would be unable to keep their gains, once the powers of Falconrake retaliate. 

“I do know, in the last couple of months, there have been sightings.  Odd shadows, and fleeting masses of darkness have appeared at night, in Boer Gorges and other places, even along lit streets.  The fear is in the air, and it’s growing among the people.”

“Do they have any weaknesses?” Orchelle asked.

“Time,” Fetton replied.  “They can make their Mysdral appear anywhere, but they can’t make it sustain itself.  If they did find the strength to spread it and make it stay over the neighboring towns, I shudder to think of the consequences.

“And the other,” he added, leaning forward with a savvy glint in his eye, “is fire.  For a single torch, the mist can snuff it out.  But not if you have a good blaze burning, though.  I was there, the time the people of Tulrone set alight half their town, to fight a group of Grackles. 

“They had snuck in, under cover of night.  My patrol and I were passing through, on our normal mission.  We were leaving a tavern, and we suddenly saw the black mist.” 

“Then,” he continued, his voice dropping lower, “the screams started.  We could not see the people yelling for help, let alone the enemy. 

“The entire town came alive.  The torches were lit.  We caught glimpses of shadows without bodies, rushing in and out of our lights. 

“In their excitement, the villagers threw their torches wherever they thought they saw movement, setting fire to their own dwellings. 

“All we could do, was chase the Mysdral to find its masters.  In the process, we suddenly stumbled into armed groups of goblins and orcs.  We fought a running battle, until we finally came to the covered well, in the center of town.

“There we were, soldiers and townsfolk, surrounding a group of Grackles, in the flesh.

“Nobody had seen one for over a hundred years; and honestly, they’re not that impressive. 

“With the Mysdral forced back by the flames, the skinny little snots cowered and shook, hiding behind their underlings for protection.  Their slicked back hair shone in the firelight; and their pointy noses just begged to be bashed and broken.  Their black cloaks clung to their bodies, as if drenched in sweat.”

Natty waited in suspense, as he downed another sip.

“They jumped into the air, like birds of the night.”  

He slowly pressed a fist down on the table.  “In an instant, they were gone without a trace.  Like impotent dogs, we watched them disappear, with a town burning around us, and a handful of their lackeys to cut down.”

“Is Tulrone that large?” Caomh asked him.  “Did it have some treasure?  I doubt if they let themselves be seen, just to harass some citizens.” 

“Nobody knows,” Fetton grumbled, finishing off his mug.

“And it would take too much fire and magic,” came a voice from the side, as the grey-mustached bartender suddenly appeared next to the table, “to clear Groshett of their influence.”

Natty had been so immersed in Fetton’s story, she had not heard him approach.  The older gentleman bore a clear, crystal goblet, filled with a dark, viscous red liquid.  He set the drink before Fetton, as a physician would give tonic to a patient.

“If the threat is so magical,” Caomh asked him, “why does not Jussalin lend their help?”

Natty let slip a slight smile at Caomh’s increasing interest, despite his calm demeanor.

“The ancient elves are noble, no one is denying it,” the barkeep sagely answered, minutely twisting one end of his mustache between his fingertips.  “They have watched the threat of Groshett, since before the time of our grandfathers.    

“Unfortunately, venturing deep into that forest is too great a commitment, which they are not able to make.

“For all anyone knows, the vermin are not even in Groshett, but hidden in a secret place, whose route is concealed by the Mysdral.”

“Sounds like it would be quite an undertaking,” Orchelle commented.

The elder nodded.  “And the gods only know how much of the Digine itself is under their influence.  The elves have no desire to leave their own sanctuary unguarded, to find out.”

“They’re just afraid,” Fetton bluntly stated, setting down the drained glass, “they may not defeat the black mist, and will show their vulnerability to it!”

“But your destination is not Groshett,” he then said, suddenly becoming more heartened and relaxed.

Natty wondered what was in the red concoction, that it would have such a quick, calming effect.  She could not ask the barkeep, as he was already walking back to his customers.

“You’re going south,” Fetton continued, “into the Aumbridge Forest, and Hebron.”

Caomh just smiled.

“You need not admit it,” the old soldier assured him, leaning back with his hands behind his head.  “The maloup riders of South Aumbridge have been making noise for weeks now; so everyone knows how Hebron’s city lords will react.  It’s still the right thing to do, mind you, despite being so predictable. 

“The greenskins raid in packs, and then retreat.

“If they were to come in a large force,” he lightly added, “the kingdom’s army could crush them all at once.  But they’re just not so considerate.”

He sat forward again, looking around the tables a little more thoughtfully.  “Therefore, Hebron is sending more troops – yourselves included – as more packs appear and encroach a little further.”

“I hope I’m not presuming too much,” he added, as he stood.  “But as for your command, aren’t you a bit few?”

He did not say, ‘young’; but even in the barroom’s subdued light, Natty saw the question clearly on his face.  And she breathed an inner sigh of relief. 

She had been concerned that he may be so deep in depression, he might have lost his will to live.  But, since he was concerned about their welfare, then to her thinking, he must still have some regard for his own.  Hopefully, it was not just the red drink talking.

“Don’t worry,” Caomh told him, maintaining his reserved air.  “We’ll be so far south, I doubt we’ll cross paths with those Grackle creatures.”

“Hopefully not, sir; the gods willing,” Fetton answered, lingering for just a moment.  “But when you continue on your south-easterly road,” he cautioned, “keep an eye to the north.  Thanks for the pint.”     

With that, and a slight bow of the head, he walked away. 

Natty watched, as he disappeared into the farthest shadows of the tavern. 

Despite reminding herself that she and her comrades had not been sent on this mission to fight a battle, Fetton’s visit had left a bit of disquiet on her.  She could see it on the others’ faces, too.

“I have heard of Aumbridge and Brakiln only once,” she commented, breaking the silence.  “But it was a long time ago.”

“Aumbridge is a forest in southern Falconrake,” Orchelle matter-of-factly told her, “which surrounds the city of Hebron.  It extends to the north, nearly to the elves’ town of Jussalin.

  “Brakiln is a well-fortified town of battle-hardened dwarf clans.  It lies less than a day’s ride south of Hebron, in the thicker part of Aumbridge.  The farther south you go, the more perilous the forest becomes.  The deepest southern regions are too dangerous, for any civilized persons to set foot.”

Natty nodded.

“Brakiln is located,” he continued, “along the main road, close to the west bank of the Tilbarry River. 

“The Brakiln dwarves are a good lot, and have been slaying goblins and orcs since before the human kingdom was founded.  This, of course, helps protect travelers who pass through their domain, and keeps Falconrake’s southern route of trade open.   

“In addition, they have produced many generations’ worth of arms and armor all through the kingdom. 

“If you get to meet them on this trip, be glad.”

“It just might happen,” Caomh said.

“You think they’ll be helping Hebron, like Fetton suggested?” Nanbres asked, from across the table.

“That would be too optimistic.  From what the higher-ups have said, the dwarves keep mostly to themselves.  They need nobody’s help for their troubles, so they let their neighbors deal with their own, and maintain a relationship based strictly on trade.”

“Hmph.  It’s not wise to let one’s business partner perish.”

“When you live longer than five human lifetimes, and the rules and edicts of your ally can vary with each new successor, it’s best for both sides to have a securely set list of provisions, and stick with them.”

“Oh,” Nanbres replied, momentarily deflated. 

“But,” she pointed out, “the dwarves live in a domain ruled by humans.”

“And that’s the degree of autonomy they have,” Caomh further explained, “just like the elf town to the north.”

“So the goblins would have to stop their hit and run attacks,” Orchelle added, “and come all at once.  Then the goodly races could come out and fight them all at once.”

“No matter what the humans or dwarves or elves are doing, what if we encounter maloup riders?” Natty pointedly asked. 

“You don’t like even talking about those monstrous wolves, do you?” Tremba lightly teased.

“I hate them more than the goblins that ride them,” she flatly declared.  “They have no right to exist – – not with their oversized bodies and evil souls.  They’re a blight on all the world of the living.”

“If they are there,” Orchelle pointed out to the whole group, “we’ll have to retreat.  They can rip apart a horse too easily, and we don’t have sufficient numbers to fight them off.”

“That is not completely true,” Natty tentatively replied. 

As soon as the words left her mouth, all eyes turned toward her – – Caomh’s most keenly.  “For most horses,” she elaborated, looking purposefully at Orchelle, “they cannot fight them one-on-one.”

“But, Tarthi,” she said, “has been taught to take the offensive, if she sees a wolf, and the smell of maloup is in the air.  Once spurred, she’ll charge. 

“She has learned it will lead in with its bite, so she’ll lash out with the iron on her front hooves.  If she fails to knock it down, she will turn aside as it slips past.  This way she avoids exposing her neck, and positions herself to kick the beast with her hind legs.  She knows to do all this, so her rider can attack the wolf’s goblin master.” 

“Tarthi is smart, too,” she added, with a warm degree of personal satisfaction.  “She has a strong desire to trample such a creature, once it’s down.”

Seconds dragged past, with Orchelle just looking at her, and the surrounding barroom becoming oddly quiet.  Finally, he asked the inevitable question, among all their staring eyes.

“And how,” he slowly inquired, “does she know to do all this, when she is not supposed to face such danger, until I have reached the rank of lancer?” 

Since she had spilled a few beans, Natty figured she might as well dump the whole pot.  “I took her out, to the fields where the wolves are baited, and taught her.

“I carried along one of the preserved maloup hides, so she would know the scent.”

Orchelle sat silently for a couple of seconds, took a deep inhalation, and squared his shoulders.

“I take great offense,” he ominously began, “at this secret work done with my horse.”

“Orchelle,” Caomh said, calmly intervening.

Natty tried to keep up a calm appearance, despite the severe consequences which now loomed before her.  She could already see the scales weighing in Caomh’s mind, and looked him in the eye with baited breath, to hear his next words.

“Why did you do this secret work, Natty?  And how many other horses in this squad have you taken these liberties with?”

“I did it,” she began, with only a slight clearing of her throat, and urging herself to sit up straight, “because Tarthi had reached the right level of ability.  She was ready to advance.”

“But why did you decide it was your place, to train her in those more advanced things?”

“She has to be able to protect herself, and her rider,” she pointed out, placing emphasis on the latter part of the statement.  “The time of the regular trainers is limited.  During an emergency, all cavalry might be called, no matter what their level of skill.  It would be inexcusable, to lose a comrade or their mount, just because they lacked the proper training.

“I did it in secret,” she further explained, “because my mastery of that instruction has not yet been recognized.”

She could have told them, she had already done the work alongside a couple of the senior trainers, who had declared her to be able, and had even shown her where the restricted maloup skins were securely kept.  But she stayed quiet, with an adamant resolve to keep them out of trouble.

  “I was going to tell Orchelle, when he had time to take Tarthi through those exercises himself.  Then they could learn the ways of that combat together.”

“And the others?”

“Fierna’s and Tremba’s,” she answered, without hesitation.  “They were also ready.”

She could see the light in the other two troopers’ eyes brighten, in not a good way, as they both leaned a little more forward.

“Does anyone else know you risked yours and the horses’ lives like this?” Caomh pressed.

“No.”

The silence hovered; the tavern’s lights cast deep shadows in the faces looking at her; and with each second, she felt a growing weight pressing on her shoulders.  

“The rules are there for a reason, girl,” he told her, unemotionally.  “And you are dangerously arrogant, to think you have the right to break them, just because you’re so talented.”

“I can do the work,” she said, “but just because I have not reached my seventeenth year – .”

“Don’t make excuses.”

Her verbal defense stopped cold.

Caomh turned to his second in command.  “Orchelle?”

With less control of his emotions, the other soldier answered, “She has to face consequences for what she has done.”

“There can be no greater consequence,” Fierna suddenly cut in, standing up, “than losing one’s life!”    

“I am also upset by this revelation,” she stated, leaning forward with her hands on the tabletop.

“Our horses are ours to ride, no matter what dangers we face.  As we live and breathe, no one will ever love them as we do.

“For that reason, no one may touch them, without our knowledge.”

“But we do know,” she continued, placing distinct emphasis on each word, “Natty’s own love for them runs deep; so much so, she would give her life for theirs.

“This is the degree of trust we may place in her, as our field-guard.” 

Despite Fierna’s restraint, Natty was deeply hurt by the undertone of betrayal in her voice.  Silently, she sat through it.

“Now, it is clear her skill is the equal of her devotion, as we all know how dangerous that stage of the horses’ development is.  And she even managed to do it in secret!” 

She looked around the tables at everyone’s faces, as if challenging someone to disagree. 

Then Fierna looked back at Natty.  “The only thing keeping me from throttling her right now, is the fact that she has shown such a great gift for the animals at such a young age – – greater than anyone I have ever known of.” 

Natty shifted her eyes back and forth between their faces, fighting the urge to squirm in her chair. 

“That,” she continued, “and I’m too angry to act, for her having taken more initiative than myself.”

Her authoritative display calmed, as her voice became lower.

“She saw the readiness of my horse.  I did not.

“Since she has already risked her life to see him grow,” she gently asked Caomh, as she sat back down, “is that much different than us, as we risk our lives in battle?”

Although more than one of the group leaned back a bit, Natty did not let herself relax.

“Tremba?” Caomh asked.

Natty could see he was also plainly upset, for which she certainly did not blame him.  His response was low but careful, as if quietly sighting in a target with a drawn bow.

“Despite this infraction,” he said, “I want to see what my horse can do, before I condemn her teacher.”

Natty briefly assessed the looks on the faces of her other squad-mates, seeing different expressions ranging from guarded observation, to stern disapproval.

“And I suppose,” Fierna asked Natty, “you were fully intending to tell us, as well?”

“Yes,” Natty replied, “as we were coming to the middle of the season.  The rotation of your duties would allow you time to properly work with your horses, and their new knowledge.”

“You would have to instruct the riders,” Caomh pointed out, “in order to see that done.”

“I know,” she admitted, seeing the two sides of the implication.  “I would have to confess my activities.  And also, I would have to still be allowed on the training grounds.” 

However, he had not said she was disallowed.  Not yet.

Orchelle spoke up.  “You’re talking as if everything is fine,” he said to his commander.  “Are you trying to offer forgiveness, for good results?  If she feels she was treated unfairly, that’s no excuse.”

“The wrongful act is not made right,” Caomh coolly agreed.  “But I’m in charge here, and I’m exercising my authority, not just quoting from the rulebook.”

“Trust is hard to regain, after it has been lost,” Orchelle rebutted, without sympathy.  “As long as she had the privilege to work at the stables, she was trusted to follow the rules in that book.” 

“The reason Tarthi is unafraid of battle,” Caomh countered, his hands professionally folded on the table in front of him, “is because she trusts you.  Natty helped build that trust.” 

“As for the risk she took with the horses’ lives,” he continued, turning back to Natty, “as Fierna said, she did not place the animals in any danger, which she herself was not willing to face.”

He again treated Natty to his neutral expression, and she could not guess his next response.

“I believe you had a similar talk with the colonel before we embarked on this mission.”

“Yes.  He did acknowledge my skills.”

“The rules that we follow, have saved more lives than your skills, or anyone else’s,” he said in return, unmoved.

In the moment he delivered the statement, Natty saw a greater truth, than the point of view she had been using to justify her actions.  Of course, she held deep respect for the soldiers of her country, and would never insult or dishonor them.  She had grown up with a decorated member of the cavalry as her father, after all. 

But as she was a member of this squad, and had her own part in the mission’s success as the field-guard, so too did Caomh, as he was sitting before her, as the leader. 

He was indeed using his own judgment.  But the uniform he wore, which vested him with that authority, also placed in his hands a tremendous responsibility to uphold for the mission, the kingdom, and the troops under his command, built on a set of principles greater than himself.  He would make no compromise, in service to those things.

As Natty had broken a rule, even though with good intentions, she had not merely disagreed with the opinions of others.  She had spat in the face of those principles.

Compared to his faithfulness, the hubris of her actions suddenly bit at her conscience.  She tried to keep from glancing downward in shame. 

“You could have stayed quiet, you know,” Orchelle told her, interrupting her thoughts.

“No, I couldn’t,” she replied, letting herself look away from Caomh.  “Rendart cavalry are superior.  That is the truth.  Our riders can only be the best, if they know their horses are at their best.  There is no other path to victory.” 

Caomh again addressed Orchelle.  “What would you suggest?”

“For dealing with this?  Why are you asking me?” he nonchalantly retorted.  “You’re in command.”

“Under our law, she has to answer to everyone whose mount is involved.  Loss of all privilege is appropriate.  But would it benefit anyone, to send her away?”

“There are other trainers to act as field-guards.  We’re not obligated to give her a place among us, for any reason.”

“We’re also not obligated to force someone out of the Crown’s service, even for a wrongdoing.  If you were going to take any action besides banishment, what would it be?”

Natty’s heart leapt into her throat, at the mention of the word.  She made herself keep sitting stoic and upright, with a suddenly dry throat and slightly damp palms.

Orchelle leaned back, rubbing the reddish stubble on his chin.  He turned to Fierna and Tremba, studying their faces for a moment.  

“I never demanded she be exiled,” he finally answered, with slight annoyance.  “The fact that my horse is better equipped, is something I would never take lightly.  Nor would I rush to judgment, against the one who made her so.  At the same time, the lack of adherence to our regulations, even though it was not done out of disrespect to our soldiers, must be addressed so it does not happen again.

“It has consistently been the way of the military to keep a body busy, to keep them from mischief. 

“If she wants to make up for this, she must put on the kingdom’s uniform, as soon as we get back to Rendart.  She has to use her fundamentals period, which all newly-appointed field-guards must go through, to guide our whole squad in that training. 

“She must also give up her choice of assignment, and stay within our own brigade.  She will climb the ranks; that much is obvious.  But let her do so with the rest of us, and with the same regulations we follow.  And she must never circumvent a horse’s master again.”

Caomh looked back at her.  “You see, Natty?  You should have talked to us, and trusted us to see the reasoning behind your concern; and not just acted on your own.”

 “I know,” she managed to say, although she felt ashamed just by talking. 

Was it humility making her hurt so much, or relief? 

She could not tell.

“Now,” Caomh continued, “despite the trust that has been breached, I’m willing to follow Orchelle’s suggestion, because I’ve seen your dedication.  If you don’t agree, then you know the consequences when we get home.”

Natty knew she would already be limited under Chief Roaquin’s command, as he would most certainly follow the proverbial rulebook.  But she felt a pang of grief, at the notion of not riding with the higher-ranking cavalry sooner, where the horses needed her most.

She had thought she was ready for life’s demands and consequences, because she could perform so well in her calling.  In her vanity, she believed she could make better decisions than the riders, because of her bond with the horses.   

But this night’s experience had taught her differently, with a lesson to carry until the end of her days.  And, as when she had stood in the colonel’s office, she had only one option, if she wanted to ride with Rendart’s forces, as a true field-guard.

She asked Orchelle, “Do you really approve, of me sticking around?”

“I’m willing to bear it.  But I am saddened, not knowing if I can trust you.”

She bowed her head a little bit.  “You have the right to say that,” she said, fully conceding the point.   

“I have the right to say I was wronged?  That’s generous of you.”

“I see my error!  I’m sorry I betrayed the trust you had placed in me, and won’t do it again!  I want to make up for it.”

“I will accept your apology,” he quietly said, in a slightly more relaxed manner. “And I do acknowledge, you still have good work to give.  I’m willing to step forward tomorrow, anew.”

“Thank you,” she gratefully replied.

She looked back at Caomh.  “I agree.”

“Very good,” he said, with a smile.  “I hope you continue to do as well for the remainder of the trip.”

“You’ll find me more than ready,” she asserted, holding her shoulders back again, managing a slight smile in return.

“But going back to the original question,” Orchelle asked, “what if we are faced with goblins astride their giant wolves?  We might find a situation different than what we are planning on.”

 “We’re not going to fight,” Caomh answered, setting his empty mug down.  “We’re to use our speed, and act as spotters.  If we find anything, Hebron’s own forces will deal with it.”

With that, and much to Natty’s relief, the business of the day came to an end, and their party adjourned.

As she shared a room with Nanbres and Fierna, Natty was grateful for the bed and the roof over her head. 

Despite any upset over her recent actions, her roommates were still true horse-lovers, and kept her up late, asking all about her secret lessons with Fierna’s gelding.  And Natty returned the sentiment with utmost enjoyment, sharing all she had done, and how the warrior-woman could best use his new skills.